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Shaking, I unlock the door. Sundance is not a stranger, he’s a friend. We’ve always had that thing between us, chemistry. Neither of us willing to explore it, before. We smell of the pub. Pubs smell different these days, with the smokers always outside, but the beer smell is there. Stale and yeasty. It’s a heady smell made worse by his breathing behind me. I want to run. Instead I unlock the door and my arm invites him in.
In the kitchen I pour wine from a bottle that was left half-empty in the fridge. It’s old, but I’ve got beer tastebuds now. Sundance takes the glass and clinks mine. I wave him into the lounge and throw a blanket over the tear before we sit. Awkwardness is everywhere.
‘Music?’ Sundance asks.
I shake my head. There is no music now that doesn’t conjure Tim. Even in the music he hates, even in a Top 40 hit or a doof-doof dance track, I can hear his voice, his disparaging voice, analysing, criticising, annihilating any shred of credibility in any music that isn’t pure Aussie pub rock‘n’roll. With Tim, music featured in every part of our lives. It set the mood, created the feel for whatever we were doing, night or day. Would it be slow and tender, hard and fast, strange and adventurous? There was always a track that suited our mood, and each of those tracks is now a part of my brain that just won’t go away, no matter how beer sodden I get.
Sundance nods. I can see he knows enough to regret asking that question.
Without music I don’t know what to do. I have nothing to guide me, no script to give me a personality to inhabit. My elbows are pinned to my sides.
The choices we have are to talk about something real – our mutually ruined lives? – or to touch each other. Four hours ago I would have said all I wanted to do was touch another person, just to prove that I could. Now? Not so much.
‘I feel awkward, Sundance.’
‘Oh, thank God you said that, Alice. So do I. Haven’t done this for a while, you know.’
Sundance is a hippie. Tonight he is wearing a hemp shirt and old denim jeans. He is greying and his hair is long and in a scruffy ponytail. Tim would have hated him, called him a cliché because he dresses that way with a day job in the government.
The clock ticks in the kitchen. Counting down the seconds, each one diminishing my determination to break free. Each tick a reminder of the old patterns, a reminder of Tim. A step towards fear. Impulse is my only chance. I lean in and kiss Sundance. His face feels fleshy, Tim’s was bony. His lips are full, Tim’s were thin. Sundance kisses me back. He lacks the rhythm Tim had, or maybe it’s that Sundance and I haven’t worked out our rhythm yet. I persist with a mule-like determination. Sundance puts his arms around me and moans. Tim would have whispered a lyric in my ear. Sundance’s body presses into mine and the fullness of it is shocking. His arms feel muscular but soft, like he’s all there, every part of him, nothing is missing. With Tim, there was always a part of him that he’d shaved off and given away. Each difference is a gift. I am suddenly and surprisingly happy.
FARAJ, CORALIE AND RUBY
Housing Needs Assessment
Housing Needs Assessment: Application
Date: 10/2/2013
Housing Officer: Coralie Dunbar
Client: Faraj Mohammed
Health/Disability Issues: N
Financial Issues: Y
Social/Cultural Issues: Y
Current Tenancy Issues: Y
Exceptional Circumstances: N
Suggested Category: 2
Please provide reasons for Category 2 recommendation.
Client is a 17 y.o. unaccompanied minor and asylum seeker from Afghanistan. He has limited English language skills and is attending high school. He has inadequate financial resources (his income comes from Centrelink) and is unable to secure work.
Client has no security of tenure and faces imminent homelessness. He is currently living with another refugee whose wife is due to arrive soon. When she arrives, the Client will be asked to leave the premises.
Client advised that last month he was kicked out of the house due to deteriorating relationship with the other tenant and was forced to sleep in a park for several nights.
Client has requested individual housing, but the Housing Officer does not see any circumstances which would prevent him from sharing with appropriate persons.
Please explain why Client cannot secure housing in private market.
Client faces discrimination in the private rental market due to his lack of English literacy and lack of rental references.
If there are any other issues, please describe.
The original Housing Assessment Support Letter was provided by City West College, where client is attending high school, and stated that issues included ‘extreme sadness, anxiety and depression’.
The Housing Officer therefore concludes that without appropriate safe/secure long-term housing the Client’s ability to study and work in Australia will be severely impaired.
Housing Needs Assessment: Response
Date: 15/02/2013
Housing Officer: Coralie Dunbar
Client: Faraj Mohammed
The request for housing has been denied.
Housing Needs Assessment: Addendum to Original Assessment
Date: 28/2/2013
Housing Officer: Coralie Dunbar
Client: Faraj Mohammed
Health/Disability Issues: Y
Financial Issues: Y
Social/Cultural Issues: Y
Current Tenancy Issues: Y
Exceptional Circumstances: N
Suggested Category: 1
Please provide reasons for Category 1 recommendation. Further to my previous report, new information has been made available to the Housing Officer through an interpreter and also psychologist report. This additional information has caused the Officer to change Mr Mohammed from Category 2 to Category 1.
Through the interpreter, Mr Mohammed has advised that he has endured significant trauma and loss and is experiencing chronic mental health issues as a result. It is imperative for his mental health that he has safe, secure and independent housing. The amended psychology report (attached) attests to this and states that Mr Mohammed’s mental health will continue to decline if his housing needs are not met.
The psychology report also shows that Mr Mohammed’s ongoing mental health issues are exacerbated by living in a shared house. He is currently incapable of developing relationships due to severe emotional trauma. With continued treatment he may regain his mental health, but under present conditions he finds cohabitating distressing and is not able to develop functional relationships with the people with whom he lives.
Psychology Report
Mr Mohammed’s psychologist has provided a further letter of support. An excerpt is below:
‘It is my professional opinion that Mr Mohammed’s present medical condition precludes him from living with others and that it will be beneficial to his ongoing health if he is housed independently. I have diagnosed Mr Mohammed with chronic post-traumatic stress disorder associated with an event in which his parents and brothers were killed when a bomb exploded in his country of birth, Afghanistan. All four were burned almost beyond recognition, while Mr Mohammed played soccer nearby. Mr Mohammed was required to identify the bodies. He is currently distressed by intrusive memories and nightmares, avoidance/numbing behaviours used to cope with re-experiencing the trauma, sleep disturbance, anger/irritability, impaired concentration, hyper-vigilance, anxiety and depression. His condition is long-term and affects his day-to-day activities and ability to cope. His long term prognosis is unknown and contingent upon his responsiveness to treatment.’
Housing Needs Assessment: Response
Date: 12/03/2013
Housing Officer: Coralie Dunbar
Client: Faraj Mohammed
The request for housing has been denied.
Housing Needs Assessment: Application
Date: 26/03/2013
Housing Officer: Coralie Dunbar
Clien
t: Faraj Mohammed
Health/Disability Issues: Y
Financial Issues: Y
Social/Cultural Issues: Y
Current Tenancy Issues: Y
Exceptional Circumstances: Y
Suggested Category: 1
Please provide reasons for Category 1 recommendation.
Faraj is a beautiful boy. Smooth, brown skin. Tall, strong. He might have been an athlete. He has black wavy hair and he wears it long. It flips over his left eye and he doesn’t push it away. He’s using it to hide from the world and I’m sure he doesn’t know it makes him look like James Dean.
He doesn’t speak much English and I don’t speak Dari so it’s difficult to communicate, but we have developed a series of hand signals that he seems comfortable with. Maybe it’s easier than speaking. Words can hold so much pain.
Please explain why Client cannot secure housing in private market.
I want to take him home with me. Perhaps my husband and I can cure him of his fear of loss. My husband, who teaches Middle Eastern cultures at the university, will give him our most comfortable chair, and they will speak (although my husband only knows basic Dari and Faraj only basic English).
The conversation will be notable for its mutual concentration, fascination and respect. My husband will make Faraj warm Milo at night time like he used to do when our children were young.
My husband knows that Faraj means ‘relief from bad times’ and Faraj will be a relief for us both, a chance to focus our energy on someone who needs us, just like the old days, before we started to look at each other blankly after the evening meal. Even though he’s not capable of friendship, he will help us.
But Faraj can’t stand to be around people.
If there are any other issues, please describe.
One night I will knock on Faraj’s door and open it before he has a chance to respond. I will find him with his sleeve pulled up and a compass in his hand. He will be scratching a criss-cross pattern in the soft skin on the inside of his bicep. There will be splashes of blood drying on his jeans and I will realise why he always insists on washing his own clothes. I will wonder where this starts and if it will ever end.
Housing Needs Assessment: File Management
Date: 26/03/2013
Housing Officer: Coralie Dunbar
Client: Faraj Mohammed
File closed and archived.
The Bay
Tonight is cold, for spring, but the tram is warm. I sit where the sun comes through the window, low and bright. There were no clouds in the day and from this I know it will be a cold night. I can’t ride the tram forever and the beach will be cold. The wind comes off the water like it’s ice.
At Plane Tree Drive the faces were cold but the bed was warm. Ahmad did not want me. In Kabul we would not have been friends. We would have walked past each other on the street and I would have looked to the ground to avoid his eyes. He might have spat at my shoes. But here, we have something in common. We are Asylum Seekers.
Ahmad talks about Afghanistan every day. But I tell him here no one talks like this and history seems very short. Here, the tribes are different. Football-Team-Coloured tribes. Size-of-Your-House tribes. Cost-of-Your-Car tribes.
But Ahmad and I cannot forget the history that lives in our bones. That history was told to us in dangerous words after dinner, since we were alive. We cannot live in that little flat and pretend our families could be friends.
On the tram it is also better to not look at anyone in the eye. But there is a woman opposite who looks up at me every now and then. I wonder why she’s not afraid.
We are nearly at the Bay and I try to remember a place I can go to sleep where the wind won’t rush through like the whoosh of a bomb. Where the cold won’t go into my bones.
The woman is looking at me again as she gathers her shiny handbag and finishes her takeaway coffee. She has dark skin like me, but we don’t look alike. She smiles at me and I feel warm for a moment, but then I look away.
The tram stops, right before the beach. Everyone gets off and rushes like they have important things to do, but I just walk to the jetty, slowly.
The jetty is old. Paint and rust hold it together. I stop and watch a seagull swoop for something.
‘It’s gonna be a cold one.’
I turn and see the woman from the tram, looking at her phone. Her voice is big. High like a whistle but strong like a wall.
I nod. She looks up at me and puts her phone in her bag.
‘You sleeping rough?’
I don’t know how to answer that.
‘The backpack. The hair. You look like you need a shower, mate.’
‘Ahmad kicked me out,’ I say.
‘Who’s this Ahmad? What did you do to him?’
I can’t answer that either. How do you explain years of ancient history that is not even your story?
‘I won’t bite, lad. You’re shaking like a leaf. What’s your name?’
‘Faraj,’ I say.
‘I’m Ruby,’ she says.
She holds out a hand to me. I can’t take it, but I try to smile. Ruby is still looking at me like I’m a puzzle, but then she looks away and out to sea.
‘Love this place. Always come here on my way home from work. Just a few minutes, looking out there, is all I need.’
I look where she is looking. The water goes on forever and the sun is getting low. I shiver, thinking about another night outside.
‘Where’s your mob?’ asks Ruby.
‘What is a mob?’ I ask.
‘A family. A history. Your people. Everyone has a mob.’
I shake my head. Ruby is wrong. My mob are all dead.
Ruby starts talking again, slowly as though she’s told this story a thousand times.
‘Just because you can’t see it, or it isn’t in the books, doesn’t mean it’s not real. My mob, my history, isn’t in the books, lad. There’s no white-fella history that tells my story. My story is here,’ she points to her heart, ‘and there,’ she points to the water. ‘We know our stories. We tell them to each other, so that we remember. Always remember, lad.’
But to remember is to hurt and I want to forget.
JENNIFER AND ALEXANDER
All These Hours
While Ava naps, I sit with a pot of tea, glaring at the canvas. I’ve taken down the simple horizon I painted last week, and placed it paint-side to the wall. The new canvas stares back at me, empty. Paints crack in their tubs, creating deep crevices of darkening colour.
Painting is impossible today. My brain is stuck in a loop, replaying memories. Obsessed, deranged, I pretend to look for something profound, or some clue to unravel or explain away my mistakes, inadequacies and faults.
What I’m really doing is asking myself for permission.
Act 1
Scene: Dilapidated student house – night, 16 years ago
Jennifer: 19 years old, too tall, and in her try-hard punk phase.
Hair: short, spiky, dyed blue-black.
Eyes: rimmed with black eyeliner which is swept up in a thick arc at the outer corner in an attempt to look like Siouxsie Sioux from the Banshees.
All of it’s war paint, a protective layer, and is nothing like the ‘come hither’ makeup of other girls her age. Jennifer sees the world with brutal clarity: tough, unfathomable, cruel, indecent. She hides behind a constructed image and skulks away. She wants someone to follow her, and ask her why she’s hiding.
No one ever does.
The man Jennifer is in love with, Alexander, is dating one of those Come Hither girls: Kerry.
Alexander: short, Czech, vodka-drinking alpha-male. Or so he appears. Jennifer has known him since they were both six years old, so she can recognise his war paint, just as he can see hers.
It’s very inconvenient for Jennifer to be in love with Alexander, after all he’s dating Kerry.
Kerry: petite private school girl with perfect skin, perfect diction and unsnagged tights.
Jennifer, Alexa
nder and Come Hither Kerry are at a party. Kerry sits on Alexander’s lap and doesn’t look too big for him. He loops her long, sleek hair around his finger like it’s precious silk. He whispers in her ear and makes her smile.
Colette sees what’s going on; she’s followed Jennifer’s gaze, and she figured it out ages ago, anyway.
Colette: stirrer, manipulative as hell, although she’d never admit it, and Jennifer’s best friend.
Colette bundles the group together: Jennifer, Alexander, Kerry, Mike and Simon, and takes them outside for a cone. She might have Jennifer’s interests at heart, but her methods are cruel and unusual.
Sitting in the banana lounges in the backyard of some distant friend’s house, overlooking the dried out swimming pool, and passing around a cone, Colette starts up The Game.
‘Let’s play The Game! Jen and Alex Are Perfect For Each Other Except… We haven’t done that in ages!’
‘Nooo!’ Jennifer says, weary and embarrassed.
Lying back in a self-assured, casual pose and with Colette on his lap, Mike says, ‘Yes! I’ll start. Jen and Alexander are perfect for each other except…he has to stand on a crate to kiss her!’
Mike: Colette’s boyfriend, borderline sociopath, gigolo.
Everyone except Alexander, Kerry and Jennifer laughs.
‘Don’t you mean a ladder!’
That is either seriously amusing, or the weed is really good. Tears begin to run down their faces. Kerry is subdued and sullen. Who can blame her? Colette and the others are being arseholes. Jennifer almost feels sorry for Kerry.
‘Jen and Alex would be perfect for each other except they would argue about everything…all the time!’ says Simon.
Simon: normally very nervous and sweet but tonight rendered childish by overindulgence.
‘This game never gets tired,’ says Alexander. He stands, takes Kerry’s hand and walks back inside.
And that is the end of that.
The rest of them drift back inside where the music is loud enough to cause brain contusions and the atmosphere is accented by little corners of smoke. Glasses and bottles are on every surface like a modern art depiction of excessive disarray. Bodies are close, limbs entangled, intimacies on display everywhere. Colette and Mike have found a not-quite-dark corner to be indiscreet in. Alexander and Kerry are nowhere to be seen and Simon is mixing complicated drinks in the kitchen, chatting to a handsome stranger.
Plane Tree Drive Page 6
